


The living can't haunt you

by Lenore



Category: Thorne (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Bisexuality, Bossiness in Bed, Canonical Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, M/M, Personal Growth, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Reckoning with the Past, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: In the wake of personal and professional losses, Tom takes some time away. Phil follows.
Relationships: Phil Hendricks/Tom Thorne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	The living can't haunt you

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains spoilers for both Sleepyhead and Scaredycat and makes reference to a canonical character death. It hasn't been Brit-picked.

It’s the kind of spring day that doesn’t come around very often. The sky towers overhead, deep indigo, dazzling to the eye, making Tom squint when he glances up. Sunlight falls in bright pools on the neatly trimmed lawn, the grass a pale, tender green. In the distance, a crab apple tree in full blossom sheds snowy petals. He can’t decide if it’s a fitting memorial or an insult for the weather to be this fine when they’re burying Sarah in the cold, comfortless ground.

Whatever warmth is in the air, a chill has settled into Tom, as if his bones are made of ice. The graveside service unspools with numbing familiarity. It’s been—he has to count in his head—eight days since they said goodbye to his mum. Sarah’s parents stand with the vicar by the grave. Her dad keeps a hand on the casket throughout the liturgy, as if trying to comfort his little girl this one last time. Sarah’s mum holds tight to his arm, sparrow frail, hunched and faded in her grief. It’s one thing to bury a parent and another thing entirely when it’s a child. The natural order is turned wrong side up, a crime against how things should be.

The entirety of the police force has turned out, officers formed in neat lines, their expressions somber, the polished buttons of their dress uniforms reflecting the light. Ruth stands just in front of Tom, her back a straight, dignified line. He spots Holland across the way, wife tucked at his side. There’s a slash of guilt in Dave’s expression that he can’t quite hide—or perhaps that’s merely projection on Tom’s part. 

Phil stands next to Tom. His nearness, the solid, familiar shape of him, would be reassuring if Tom deserved that kind of comfort. The vicar’s voice washes over him distantly, wordlessly, like a language he doesn’t speak. It’s Phil he hears in his head: _You took a gamble, and it didn’t come off. If it came off every time, it wouldn’t be gamble_.

It was Tom’s gamble, yes, but he wasn’t the one who lost, was he? Phil shifts a little closer, as if he knows exactly what Tom is thinking. 

They make it through the service, and Tom gets out the expected words when it’s his turn to speak with Sarah’s parents. _She was a fine officer. Very sorry for your loss_. The throngs of police start to drift away, heading back to their shifts or off to The Bell to lift a glass in Sarah’s honor. Tom turns in the opposite direction. He can’t face the awkward small talk that goes along with bereavement, not this soon on the heels of his mum. 

“Tom.” Ruth materializes at his side. “You’ve got two weeks compassionate leave. Starting now. We’ll see where we are at the end of it.”

That last part hangs in the air. No room for negotiation in her tone. Tom’s leave will be extended if he doesn’t get himself together. 

“Understood,” he says gruffly.

Phil falls in beside him, and they pick their way along the uneven ground toward the side gate. They pass a soaring, intricately carved seraph with a mournful expression and an even more forlorn inscription on the base, “Little angel, not long for this world,” followed by an entire row of markers so old and weather-beaten the names are lost forever.

Tom shifts a sideways glance at Phil. “You’re not going with the others?”

“Memorializing a fallen colleague with a pint doesn’t seem quite the thing when you were there to see her fall, does it?”

Tom shakes his head, and the scene replays in his head unbidden, the force of the shot rocking Sarah’s body, sending her sprawling. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, as if that will somehow help him to unsee it. 

“Hey.” Phil stops Tom with a hand to his shoulder, his grip firm and determined. “The only one responsible for Sarah is the bastard who killed her.”

Phil looks him in the eye, and there’s a clearness between them for the first time in—what? 15 years? That’s a more potent form of forgiveness than words could ever convey. 

If only Tom could forgive himself.

* * *

The flat is still and quiet when Tom returns home, uncomfortably so. An abandoned coloring book sits on the dining table, a painful reminder of the little boy who is gone now and not coming back. _We don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him. Maybe in the future_. But Tom knows he won’t, even if the social worker should give the okay. Charlie deserves to forget that horrifying night when his mother died, as much of it as he can, anyway. Tom owes him that chance. 

“Dad,” he calls out.

His father emerges from the spare bedroom, bleary-eyed and a little rumpled, as if just woken from a nap. Tom prides himself on how much he observes, but he’s completely missed how frail his dad has grown, so much greyer and sadder since his mum’s passing 

Tom squeezes his shoulder. “I need some coffee. You want some?”

His dad nods gratefully and settles at the table, eyeing Charlie’s coloring book. “It was nice having the lad around while we did.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, glad to focus on making the coffee. 

He brings their mugs over once the coffee’s up. They take long sips, and there really seems nothing more to say. 

“Have you moved on to a new case then?” his dad asks, breaking the quiet.

Tom looks down at the mug in his hand. “Ruth gave me compassionate leave.”

His dad nods, and another long silence falls. When did Tom lose the ability to carry on a conversation outside of work? Things were different once, he knows. They used to go to matches together, him and his dad, despite what he said about his dad not playing footie with him when he was a kid. They supported different clubs and enjoyed a good-natured, long-running debate about who’s team was shite. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that. He and his mum used to talk about music all the time, long, impassioned conversations about Hank Williams and Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash. That’s where he gets his love of country music, after all.

His gaze falls on the piano sitting against the wall. “I miss her.”

It surprises him when the words come out of his mouth. He never wants to talk about things. That’s something he’s viewed as a strength—the ability to compartmentalize, stay focused, keep emotions sealed away in a tight box. It’s a typical man way of seeing the world, he acknowledges. In this quiet moment, sitting at the table with his dad, warm mug in hand, he can see the flaw in his own thinking. Keeping things bottled up hasn’t made him stronger. Far from it. 

_The living can’t haunt you_ , Phil said. But the hard truths you refuse to face sure as hell can. 

“I miss her too,” his dad says softly, and after a moment, he adds, “I’ve just had a thought. You’ve got two weeks leave coming, so why not spend some time at the cottage? A little peace and quiet will put you right as rain.”

Tom turns that possibility over in his mind. His family used to go there every summer when he was a boy, although he can’t remember the last time he paid a visit. The thought of spending two weeks rattling around his flat is decidedly unappealing, certainly. 

“We could do that,” Tom says. 

“I’m happy to come with if that’s what you want, son. But somehow, I think you’ll do better on your own for a bit. Give you time to sort things through. I’ll stay here and look after the flat for you.”

“Dad, I don’t mind—”

His dad pats his hand. “It’ll be just what you need. You’ll see.”

* * *

The sky is black as pitch when Tom’s alarm goes off the next morning. If he’s heading to the cottage, he should get on with it and avoid the thick-snarled traffic of people fleeing the city at the weekend. He’s packed enough clothes to see him through, the book that’s been sitting unread on his bedside table for months, the fishing gear gathering dust in the closet. He briefly considers texting Phil to tell him where he’s going, but then doesn’t, since there’s no particular reason to keep Phil apprised of his movements. 

By the time the sun comes up, he’s clear of the city and settled into the monotony of the drive, with little to keep his mind occupied outside of the changing scenery. Inevitably, his thoughts slide back to everything that happened on the case, grinding over what-if scenarios for how things could have gone differently, for how Sarah might still be alive. 

_We would have had both those guys in custody if you hadn’t been such a fuckup_. That was the last thing Tom ever said to her. The gall of it strikes him now, as if he weren’t the one who insisted on setting Palmer free, as if he himself hadn’t been a fuckup in far worse ways. 

_We were friends. You fucked that up_ , says Phil’s voice in his head, a reminder of the worst fuckup of all. 

It’s not even his own hypocrisy that’s the worst part. It’s how blind he was. All the signs he missed in the Palmer case seem rather glaring in hindsight. Trying too hard to fit evidence into a pattern is one of the worst sins an investigator can commit. Tom can see now how many discrepancies there were in his theory of a second killer, contradictions that he simply discounted: Sarah said only Palmer was there in the flat that night, Charlie heard only one voice, only Palmer’s DNA was found at the scene of Charlie’s mum. 

And of course, there was the unsolved mystery of Stuart Nicklin. Fifteen-year-old boys didn’t just run away and disappear forever, Tom knew that. The living made poor ghosts. There was always some proof of life: witness accounts, government records, a trail of arrests, something. When Tom replays in his head the interview with Palmer, he sees it so differently now—that moment when he told Palmer they had his co-conspirator in the next room. At the time, he read Palmer’s reaction as fear. Now he recognized it for what it truly was: profound cognitive dissonance at the notion that the police had somehow managed to arrest his murderous alter ego.

Tom’s burden of guilt feels weightier by the time he reaches the village, hardly an auspicious beginning to his holiday. He stops for a bite at the pub, picks up supplies from the shops, and continues on to the cottage, which lies a few miles beyond. As he pulls into the drive, he’s overtaken by a surprising fondness, although the house has never been much to look at it, a small, squat box with greying shingles that’s even shabbier these days. 

As aesthetics go, Tom prefers clean lines, open space, minimal décor. Inside, the cottage is the exact opposite, with its overstuffed furniture, profusion of embroidered cushions, bric-a-brac crowding every surface. A bookshelf stands in one corner of the lounge, piled high with his mum’s dog-eared paperbacks, ancient copies of _National Geographic_ , jigsaw puzzles and board games they brought out whenever rain kept them indoors. Tom pauses in the doorway for an unaccountably long time, taking in the tangible sense of his mother that lingers there. 

Settling in takes no time. Clothes folded in the bureau. Groceries stowed away in the kitchen. He stalls at the back door, looking out over the garden. The weather has turned, and rain has started falling in sheets. A walk around the lake will have to wait for tomorrow. It’s quiet in the house, the kind of stillness that doesn’t exist in the city, and his thoughts are so loud inside his head. That’s always the problem, isn’t it? Usually he calls Phil at times like these, but he can’t keep using Phil as a crutch, not now. Instead, he fetches the book he’s brought and stretches out on the sofa, struggling to follow the words on the page, trying not to let his mind spiral away into useless if-only’s.

* * *

Tom gets up with the sun, having slept poorly, with a lingering sense of unsettling dreams. Coffee and breakfast revive him, and he sets out on the promised walk around the lake. It’s too early in the season for most holiday-goers, but a few boats dot the water. An older couple dressed in matching track suits, out for their morning constitutional, nod civilly as they pass. A young mother on a bicycle, trailed by her two little girls, heads along the path toward the village. It manages to surprise Tom, as it always does, when he remembers that for most people this is the ordinary fabric of life, not the murder and mayhem that occupy so much of his time. 

The exercise does him good, his mind a little quieter when he returns home to the cottage, and he keeps himself busy by having a go at the weeds in the back garden. The shed holds everything he needs: gloves on the work bench, his father’s tools neatly hung on a pegboard. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, the satisfying sound of the trowel striking the soil, grasping the weeds and pulling them free, a welcome distraction from mistakes he can do nothing to correct.

By midday, he’s made good progress, a growing heap of plant refuse accumulating on the compost pile. He stands up to stretch his back and contemplates taking a break for something to eat. The sound of a car breaks the stillness. Tom assumes it must be turning into the neighbor’s place, but after a moment, Phil rounds the side of the house, duffel slung over his shoulder. 

“Is this what you’re calling a holiday, then?” 

Tom can only stare, not entirely sure he can trust what his senses are telling him, that Phil Hendricks is standing right there, in the overgrown back garden of his family’s summer cottage. 

“Your dad told me where you’d gone. Taking some leave didn’t seem a bad idea,” Phil says, starting to looking a bit unsure of his welcome. 

In his entire life, Tom can’t remember ever being this happy to see someone. “You want some lunch?”

Phil smiles broadly, the uncertainty gone. 

Inside, he glances around. “When were we here last? That summer after you made detective, wasn’t it? Place still looks the same.”

“Wasn’t that the time you fell in the lake?”

“Fuck off,” Phil says genially, accepting the beer Tom hands him.

He and Phil came up to the cottage with his mum and dad that time. They’d shared his boyhood bedroom, their legs dangling off the ends of the twin beds. Phil helped his mum with the cooking and played cards with his dad in the evenings. Tom remembers how relaxed they all were, how easy the laughter. It seems funny to think it, but he can’t recall enjoying any holiday as much since then. 

Tom opens a cupboard door. “Your lunch options.” 

Phil takes in the small selection of tinned things. “How very Tom Thorne of you.”

He deigns to eat some beans on toast and tinned peaches, and helps himself to more beer.

After a while, Tom asks the obvious question. “Why did you really come?”

Phil shrugs. “Let’s just say I know you and your propensity to get trapped inside your own head. Figured you could use someone to remind you that, smart as you are, you’re not all seeing and knowing.”

“I just wish—” He doesn’t finish that thought, but then, he doesn’t have to. 

“So, what are we doing today?” Phil asks, clearly determined to distract Tom from himself.

“Fishing’s better in the morning, but we could give it a go.”

“Because I’m a keen outdoorsman, of course.”

“I’ll bring beer,” Tom promises.

“I accept your terms then,” Phil says, with a smile.

They reclaim the beaten old rowboat from the shed and carry it to the dock, along with Tom’s fishing gear and the promised cooler of beer. Phil leaves Tom to do all the work, lazily sprawled in his end of the boat as Tom rows them out to the middle of the lake.

“Thanks for the hand,” Tom says dryly.

Phil lifts his beer bottle in a cheeky salute, and Tom can’t hold back a smile. He baits a hook, drops the line into the water, opens a beer for himself. It’s been too long since he’s done this, truly let go, the world narrowed down to the sky overhead, the water lapping gently at the boat, the one person whose company he always welcomes.

For a long while, he’s content to enjoy the moment for what it is, but he knows he can’t just leave it be. The wedge between them will keep its power, will just go on haunting them if he doesn’t do something about it. 

He screws up his courage to say, “About that day. With Calvert.”

Phil glances at him tiredly. “We’re doing this now, are we?”

“When I called you, I didn’t—there was no intention behind it. I’d fucked up and I didn’t know what to do. You’re the person I turn to when I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” 

“So, the coverup, that’s my fault then?” A sharp edge creeps into Phil’s voice, all too familiar.

Tom shakes his head. “No. That’s not it.” 

He struggles to put into words how it felt to have Phil show up that day, in the worst moment of his life, and take command. In his head, Tom can still see how cool-headed and efficient Phil was, how certain as he staged the scene. _It’s gonna be okay. No one’s heard. _Tom can recall Phil’s hands on him, getting him up off the floor and out of that cursed house, into the car, pushing the phone at him. _You know what to say_. __

__Tom takes a breath. “I wanted you to take charge. I wanted you to make it better. But I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have done that to you. You’re the last person I ever want to hurt, and I’m sorry.” He meets Phil’s gaze straight on, to punctuate how much he means it._ _

__Phil is quiet, his expression thoughtful. “I did what I did, and that’s on me. Hell, if I had to do it all over again, we both know I would. But, Jesus, Tom, the shit you said about those girls. What the hell made you think I could kill someone?_ _

__Tom gives the question some honest reflection. “Because I could.”_ _

__“Fuck,” Phil says under his breath. “We’re a fucked-up pair, you and me.”_ _

__Tom can’t deny it. He doesn’t mind as much as he probably should, as long as they’re in it together._ _

__Phil gives him an appraising look. “You know what? I think we’ve had enough of serious conversations. We are on holiday, after all. And since you haven’t managed to catch me any fish, I’m going to need you to take us back to shore and into town to pick up actual food. I’m not eating tinned shite again for dinner.”_ _

__“I can do that,” Tom says, with a small smile._ _

__They secure the boat at the dock, grab wallets and keys from the house, and head out to the drive._ _

__Tom looks around, confused. “Where’s your car?”_ _

__Phil settles into the passenger seat of Tom’s. “A pal of mine was headed this way. Gave me a lift.” There’s something shifty in his expression, and Tom feels certain this was a preemptive measure in case Tom tried to send him away._ _

__He starts the engine. “I’m glad, you know.” It comes out stupidly tongue-tied. “That you came, I mean.”_ _

__Phil grins at Tom’s awkwardness, but Tom knows what it looks like when he’s pleased._ _

__The village high street spans a grand total of three blocks, and since the season won’t officially begin for several weeks yet, some of the shops are still closed. They stroll along the pavement, surveying their options._ _

__“The wine shop is open at least,” Tom notes._ _

__“Let’s come back when we know what we’re making.”_ _

__At the grocer’s, Tom lets Phil take the lead picking out their dinner, since they both know he’ll do most of the cooking. Tom’s not what anyone would call gifted in the kitchen._ _

__“Are you up to manning the grill?” Phil asks, surveying the selection of steaks._ _

__“That I can do.”_ _

__They make a stop at the bakery for lemon drizzle cake and circle back to the wine shop, where Phil picks out a bottle he declares to be the perfect red for grilled steak. Tom adds Phil’s favorite whiskey to the order._ _

__Back at the cottage, Phil sets Tom to lighting the grill, seasoning the steaks, and uncorking the wine while he roasts potatoes, steams asparagus, sautés mushrooms, whips up dressing for a salad. It’s a tight squeeze for two in the kitchen. Mostly they maneuver smoothly around one another, but when Tom blocks Phil’s route to the stove, he simply moves him bodily out of his way, hands proprietary on Tom’s hips._ _

__It sets off a surprising shiver of sense memory: Phil banging him against the metal wall in the mortuary, fingers hard at the base of his neck, demonstrating the method of death in the case, the little thrill that went through Tom at Phil’s intensity and razor-sharp intelligence, the way he manhandled Tom with the promise of—maybe not violence exactly, but something very much like it._ _

__Tom stands there helplessly, more aroused and confused than he’s even been in his life, his lungs too shallow to get a full breath._ _

__“I should—” he starts, but he has no idea how to finish that thought._ _

__What should you do when the tightly shut box of things you refuse to acknowledge becomes unsealed and what pours out is the overwhelming desire to be sexually owned by your best mate? It seems vitally important to put some physical distance between them. He shifts to the side, too suddenly, not looking; his elbow knocks into the stack of cookbooks his mum kept on the worktop, sending the top one flying. It nearly upends the platter of steaks, only saved from crashing to the hard linoleum by Phil’s quick reflexes._ _

__“Jesus. What’s gotten into you?” Phil pushes the platter into Tom’s hands, turns him by the shoulder toward the back door, and gives him a little nudge. “Go do the grilling before you dump our dinner all over the floor.”_ _

__It’s a welcome escape—the tiny kitchen isn’t nearly roomy enough to hold Phil, Tom, and Tom’s newly acknowledged, wildly out-of-control desire. The coals on the grill have gone white hot, and the steaks sizzle when he carefully places them over the heat. He has enough presence of mind to keep an eye on how they’re cooking, but it all seems far away. Sensations keep rushing back at him, as if Tom has been hording the memory of every brush of their bodies, every touch, every time Phil has ever laid hands on him._ _

__The grilling doesn’t take nearly as long as Tom wishes it would. He goes back inside, no less befuddled, only to find that Phil has gotten the rest of the meal on the table and scrounged up candles from who knows where to put in his mum’s candlesticks._ _

__“In honor of Maureen,” Phil says. “Seemed only right.”_ _

__Tom nods, and it’s a little easier to relax once he starts eating. He’s hungry and hadn’t realized it in his preoccupation. Not that Phil is any less distracting, the physical presence of him across the table, limned softly in the candlelight, the compact strength of his body, flex of muscle in his arms as he passes dishes, the hint of ink on skin along the edge of his sleeve. Tom has always recognized that Phil is an attractive man, not just to the blokes who buzz around him at clubs, but to Tom himself. Somehow, though, he’s managed to keep that recognition abstract, a footnote requiring no action. Now it’s impossible to ignore._ _

__They take dessert and whiskey into the lounge and turn on football, not saying much. Tom tries to pay attention to the match, but his gaze keeps sliding over to Phil, casually stretched at the other end of the sofa, shirt rucking up whenever he leans forward to grab his tumbler off the coffee table, exposing a pale strip of skin along his waist. Phil catches him staring and fixes him with a look, that quizzical pinch between his eyes when he’s trying to solve a mystery._ _

__When the match ends, Phil turns off the TV and declares, “There’s too much going on in that head of yours. I say we call it a night and try to get some sleep.”_ _

__Tom nods and follows Phil up the stairs, mesmerized by the way he moves, the cocky sway of his hips. He thinks of all the times he’s followed Phil: into a crime scene, through a packed club of sweating bodies, the room smelling of weed and sex, up the stairs to Phil’s flat for a night of beers and talking over theories on their latest case. If Tom has sometimes imagined what it might be like to keep following Phil, right on into his bedroom—well, that’s one of those things he’s kept tightly locked in that box of things he doesn’t allow himself to examine._ _

__But the whole point of this time away is a personal reckoning, and he reaches out for Phil, awkwardly curling a hand around his arm. He’s clumsy and suddenly impatient with need after suppressing it for so long. He surges up the rest of the stairs, taking Phil by surprise and nearly oversetting them both, knocking their heads together in his rush to get at Phil’s mouth._ _

__He’s making a mess of everything, and he takes a step back, to give Phil room to walk away or space to punch him, if that’s what he wants._ _

__Phil doesn’t do either. He leans against the wall, breathing heavily. “Is this what’s gotten into you, then?”_ _

__“Fuck,” Tom says under his breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”_ _

__“Are we pretending it never happened, then?” Sarcasm and resignation lace the words in equal measure._ _

__Tom shakes his head, helpless and wanting._ _

__Phil’s gaze on him is sharp and searching. “Or maybe this is one of those situations where you want me to take charge?”_ _

__Tom wants to say please, but can’t get it out—when was the last time he even used the word—but Phil must see the shape of it on his mouth. He surges forward, unleashed, hand against the side of Tom’s face, kissing like he’s been waiting half a lifetime for it, too. He pushes Tom into the bedroom, their bodies pressed together. Tom drags his hands down Phil’s back, over his arse, the familiar shape of him. He’s never gotten to touch him before, not like this._ _

__Phil pushes him away, in that manhandling way of his that Tom finds unbearably exciting. He attacks the buttons of Tom’s shirt, pulling it open, not carefully, but he doesn’t push it all the way off Tom’s shoulder, just leaves it hanging, as if he can’t spare the time when there are so many things he wants to do to Tom’s body. He runs his hands up Tom’s arms, over his chest, along his sides, mouth hot against Tom’s neck, teeth sharp._ _

__Tom clutches at him, trying to get his hands on skin. “Let me—”_ _

__Phil stops just long enough to say, “I’m the boss of you, remember?”_ _

__“Fuck.” Tom can’t remember ever wanting anyone this much._ _

__Phil scrabbles at Tom’s belt, opens his trousers, and pushes down his pants. He eyes Tom appreciatively, hand stroking his bare thigh, before dropping to his knees. The sense of vulnerability that comes with being mostly naked while Phil is still fully dressed—Tom wouldn’t have guessed that’s his thing, but apparently it is. He strokes Phil’s face, the forms of the bones, grotto of skull, imagining he can feel the shape of the thoughts housed there._ _

__Phil’s eyes flash hot and dark. He strokes his hands up Tom’s legs, holds him firmly by the hips, and bends his head. In all those times they went to clubs together, Tom couldn’t help wondering what Phil was like with the men he took home. Now he knows. He’s good. Fuck. So good. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue stroking in all the right places. One hand drifts back to Tom’s ass, thumb sliding along the crease, teasing a little, testing, maybe._ _

__“I like that,” Tom blurts out. “I’ve always—"_ _

__Phil pulls back, just long enough to say, “Good to know.” He says it like a promise, like he’s storing away the knowledge for next time._ _

__Tom strokes a hand through Phil’s hair, tracing the shape of the curls. Phil takes him deeper in his mouth, head moving up and down more determinedly. It’s so unbearably good it can’t last long, and Tom trembles, getting close. “Phil,” he says, voice hoarse._ _

__Phil pulls away, and Tom’s come stripes his shoulder. Tom is breathing like he just ran down a suspect, knees watery. It takes him longer than it probably should to think to give Phil a hand up from the floor._ _

__“That should make it easier to sleep.” Phil sounds strangely closed off given what they’ve just done together. He turns toward the door, as if he’s going to go across the hall to the spare room and not let Tom touch him at all._ _

__Tom catches him by the arm. “Please.” Phil stops, and Tom can feel his surprise, as if he expected Tom just to use him and be done._ _

__But Tom will never be done with him._ _

__He reaches out to touch Phil’s face, sliding his palm along Phil’s cheek, a little unsure of what’s allowed. Phil leans into the touch and then pulls back, just far enough to strip off his sweater and toss it away. He takes Tom’s hand and places it on his chest. Tom strokes soft, bare skin, and kisses Phil: his mouth, his forehead, his throat._ _

__Phil draws in a sharp breath at the touch, belying his outward appearance of control, and nudges Tom’s hand to his jeans. Tom’s fumble-fingered in his haste, but he manages to get the zipper open and touches Phil’s erection through the dampening cotton of his pants, every fragment of his attention focused on the shape and heat of Phil’s cock. He slides his hand into Phil’s pants, and there’s a deep shudder of desire, from himself or Phil, he can’t even tell._ _

__It’s been a long while since he’s done this to anyone but himself, not since uni, and the awkwardness of the angle makes him clumsy until Phil’s hand settles on his. They move together, hand in hand, stroking Phil’s cock, Phil showing Tom what he likes. Tom stares—at Phil’s cock sliding through his fingers, at his face, how beautifully austere his expression is in arousal, the way he bites his lip with pleasure. When Phil comes, a string of cursing and nonsense syllables and Tom’s name spill out of him. It’s the best thing Tom has ever heard._ _

__They’re both so boneless and spent that Tom barely has the wherewithal to steer them toward the bed. Phil thinks to swipe at the come on their bodies with some piece of clothing he’s snatched up from the floor. They collapse onto the mattress, and Tom curves along Phil’s back, cheek resting against Phil’s shoulder._ _

__He sleeps deep and dreamlessly all through the night._ _

* * *

__In the morning, waking feels like surfacing from a great distance. Fuzzy-headed as Tom is, he’s immediately aware of two things, even before he opens his eyes: he’s alone in bed and the welcome scent of coffee hangs in the air._ _

__Tom lumbers up from bed, fishes trackpants and tee-shirt out of a drawer, and stumbles blearily downstairs. He finds Phil in the kitchen, at the window, sipping coffee and staring out at the rain that has returned, even heavier than before._ _

__“We may have to dust off those board games.” There’s a forced casualness to his tone, and when he glances over at Tom, his expression is shuttered, unreadable. “There’s coffee if you want it.” He nods toward the pot on the stove._ _

__Tom helps himself and takes a moment to consider what to do next, and then just goes with his first impulse. He sets down his mug, moves over to Phil, and takes the mug out of his hand. He leans in for a kiss, giving Phil time to tell him no or push him away. But Phil comes easily, arms going around Tom’s waist, kissing back with a pleased little noise. When Tom pulls back, he strokes a thumb along the side of Phil’s face, watching him intently, trying to figure out what’s going on inside his head._ _

__“I didn’t know if you might have got it out of your system,” Phil admits._ _

__“You think I’d just—” Tom has been a shitty friend at times, no denying that, but there’s nothing remotely casual about anything between them. “’Fuck, Phil. You’re the most important person in my life.”_ _

__The plain truth of it hits him hard when it’s formed into an actual sentence._ _

__Phil tilts his head. “This is you learning to use your words, is it?”_ _

__“Fuck off,” Tom says fondly and kisses him again._ _

__Phil pushes off from the wall, crowding Tom back against the cupboard, making a place for himself between Tom’s legs, owning his mouth. Tom runs his hands all over Phil’s back, pushing their hips together, trying to get closer. They’re both hard, and every layer of clothing standing between them is Tom’s sworn enemy._ _

__Phil takes a step back and reaches for Tom’s hand. “Let’s take this upstairs, before we make the kitchen very unsanitary.”_ _

__Tom laughs. “Good idea.”_ _

__The clothes that Tom put on only minutes before hit the bedroom floor, along with Phil’s. They tumble onto the bed, and Phil climbs on top, straddling Tom, knees pressed against his sides._ _

__Tom’s breath comes fast and shallow. “I like—” He lifts his hips._ _

__“So you said. But then, you also said I’m in charge of you.” Phil leans down to kiss him, takes Tom’s wrists in hand, draws his arms up above his head, and wraps his fingers around the spindles of the headboard._ _

__“Fuck.” Every point of contact between them makes Tom desperate for more, and the notion that Phil will do with him just as he pleases is hotter than anything has a right to be._ _

__“We’re agreed, I see, on the proper order of things,” Phil says, sounding very satisfied with himself._ _

__“There’s, in the drawer—” Tom nods toward the bedside table._ _

__Phil raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask Tom what he was hoping to get up to when he packed supplies for sex on his solo holiday. Instead, he slicks his hands, gets one around Tom’s cock, and reaches behind himself with the other. Tom can only stare, at the way Phil’s eyes drift close, his mouth falls softly open, the flex of biceps as he fucks himself on his fingers._ _

__Tom strains forward, not quite letting go of the headboard, holding on just by his fingertips. “I want—"_ _

__“Stay where I put you.”_ _

__It’s definitely an order._ _

__“Fuck.”_ _

__“Precisely.” Phil rolls a condom onto Tom and sinks down, face set with concentration, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes Tom’s cock inside him. The clench of his body is hot and tight, and Tom grips the headboard so tightly the wood audibly groans._ _

__Phil leans forward to kiss him, sliding his hands up Tom’s chest, maddeningly slowly, as if he has all the time in the world._ _

__“Can I—” Tom begins._ _

__“Not yet.”_ _

__Phil straightens up and starts to move, slowly at first and then more urgently, touching his own cock while he rides, pinching a nipple, toying with the piercing, doing all the things to himself that Tom wants to do, using Tom as an instrument of his pleasure. All Tom can do is stare up at him, shaking with the wild need to touch him and the exquisite frustration of not being allowed to, not yet._ _

__It’s so good, almost too much, and Tom can’t—he really needs to. “Please—"_ _

__“Do it.”_ _

__Tom lurches upward, getting his hands on Phil at last, trying to touch him everywhere at once. He slides a hand into Phil’s hair and pulls him into a kiss. Runs a hand over his back, over lean muscle, dip of spine, swell of ass, and then around to his chest, thumbing at a nipple, lingering on the piercing that he’s always been curious about. Phil gasps out loud at the touch, nipple stiffening beneath Tom’s fingers._ _

__“Yeah,” Phil says, egging him on. “Come on, Tom. Fuck me.”_ _

__Tom does, hips stuttering upward, driving deeper, as he gets a hand around Phil’s cock, feeling the quiver in Phil’s belly at his touch._ _

__“Tom—” Phil’s voice breaks on the word, needy, almost vulnerable._ _

__Somehow that’s even more blistering than Phil’s swaggering bossiness—which was already plenty hot—and he wants to make Phil sound like that again. He fucks up into him harder, jerking him off with sharp twists of his wrist, face pressed against his throat. Phil grips Tom’s shoulders, leaving behind the evidence of his ownership on Tom’s skin. The noises streaming out of him are utterly filthy, until they stop altogether, mid-expletive, and his come splatters Tom’s chest._ _

__“Fuck,” Tom manages, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, and coming too._ _

__Phil rolls off him, takes care of the condom, and flops back onto the mattress. They lie side by side, saying nothing for a long while, sweat-slicked and breathing heavily._ _

__“A lot of the thing with Calvert was, I was mad at myself,” Phil says at last, unexpectedly. “Having it bad for your best mate who is never going to want what you want is cliché enough, but covering up a crime because of it—_ _

__Tom reaches for him and wraps a hand around his arm, imagining he can feel the shape of his tattoo. “Phil."_ _

__“Not that I thought you could never want this.” He waves a hand vaguely at their sex-mussed bodies. “I knew what you got up to at uni, don’t forget. And I saw the way you’d look at men when we were out together. Hell, I saw the way you’d look at me when you thought I wouldn’t notice. I just assumed it was easier for you, sticking with women, what with being a copper. You didn’t need the complication of a man for a lover.” He turns to look at Tom, curiosity lighting his expression. “Is that why you never tried it on with me before?_ _

__Tom considers the question, and he thinks that, yeah, maybe it did seem easier with women. Maybe, he was also being a coward._ _

__“You know what my history with relationships is like,” Tom says, staring up at the ceiling._ _

__He’s fucked up a lot of good things, and he never wanted to fuck up with Phil, and he almost managed to do it anyway._ _

__Phil turns on his side toward Tom. “I’d say your track record is about like mine.”_ _

__Tom leans over to kiss him. He can only hope that’s about to change, for both of them._ _

* * *

__After a shower, fresh pot of coffee, and fry up, there’s still no sign of the rain letting up, so they dig the folding lounge chairs out of the hall closet and carry them out to the covered porch. Rain sheets off the roof, but the wind is calm enough that they stay dry beneath their shelter. Tom pulls out the biography he’s been stalled on for months, having managed to read a grand total of three pages. Phil has picked one of his mum’s paperbacks off the shelf._ _

__“Compelling, is it?” Tom asks, with a glance over._ _

__“You can buy me proper reading material when we go into the village for dinner.” Phil turns the page, not looking up from his book. “Although I am rather curious to see how this rakish duke plans to redeem himself. He’s been a right bastard so far.”_ _

__Tom smiles and goes back to his own rather duller book._ _

__It’s a lazy day, and they nap together after lunch, lingering in bed until it’s time to head off to the village for book browsing and dinner. The sky has lightened at last as they leave the carpark and stroll along the high street. Tom’s never been much for holding hands in public—it makes him feel like a spotty adolescent with a first crush—but he rests a hand on Phil’s shoulder, to keep a sense of connection._ _

__When Tom was a boy, there was no proper bookshop in the village, just a dusty shelf in the chemist’s containing ancient paperbacks with tattered covers that no one ever bought. Bluebird Books appears relatively new, with tall wooden shelves and a seating area by the front window, where people sip coffees while reading their purchases._ _

__The two of them drift apart as they shop, although Tom always knows precisely where Phil is, even when he’s not in his line of site, an instinct honed from years of examining crime scenes together. He picks up a postcard to send to his dad, not the kind of thing he usually thinks to do, but he knows his dad will like it. Phil returns with two books in hand._ _

__He pushes one of them at Tom. “What you’re reading is boring shite. You’ll like this better.”_ _

__Tom smiles and leans in to kiss him, without thinking whether that’s a wise move in a village like this, a place that could hardly be called cosmopolitan. The back of his neck prickles—someone is definitely watching them—but when he turns, ready with his policeman’s hard stare, it’s the young girl at the desk, pink-haired and tatted, smiling at them in a way he feels fairly certain translates to: _old people can be so cute_._ _

__They eat middling Italian at the one place besides the pub that’s open for dinner and take away dessert for later. When they get home, they go straight upstairs and have sex on the twin bed in Tom’s boyhood bedroom at Phil’s whispered, “Indulge me. It’s been a fantasy.” Afterward, they wander back downstairs and eat cake with their hands, standing naked in the kitchen._ _

__In the pale crosshatch of moonlight, with Phil so close, both of them sated and messy with chocolate, Tom can’t remember ever feeling happier._ _

* * *

__The thing about relaxing, Tom has always found, is that it’s surprisingly difficult. Holidays tend to leave him feeling restless and at loose ends, cut off from the real world, from everything that actually matters. What gives him life is getting that urgent call in the middle of the night, taking in all the details of a crime scene, separating out the relevant information from the ephemera that make up a person’s life and their death._ _

__Time away with Phil is different. Tom could feel perfectly satisfied lingering on at the cottage, just the two of them, the biggest decision they make all day what to have for dinner. But a week’s leave was all Phil could manage on short notice, and it comes to an end all too soon._ _

__“Drop me at the rail station,” Phil says, over breakfast that morning. “You don’t have to leave just because I do.”_ _

__Tom considers staying on for another week, but it’s not spending time at the cottage that has given him this sense of contentment. It’s watching Phil catch his first fish, trying to navigate sex in the old clawed-foot tub, however unsuccessfully, drinking their coffee across the table from one another, going to bed at night and waking up every morning with the one person he would happily spend every day with for the rest of his life._ _

__“I’m ready to go back,” Tom says. “I already found what I came for.”_ _

__They tidy up the cottage, pack their bags, and start for home after lunch. The drive that seemed unremittingly tedious on the way there feels companionable now, with Phil lounging in the passenger seat, idly drumming his fingers in time to the song on the radio, not even complaining about Tom’s taste in music._ _

__The farther they travel from the village, the more Tom’s thoughts shift forward. He starts picturing his return to the incident room, the familiar lines of desks and the one that will be empty now, a hole not just in their team, but in the world, an emptiness that can never be filled._ _

__“You don’t have to go back as soon as your leave is up, you know,” Phil says, as if reading his mind. “Taking time for yourself isn’t letting anyone down.”_ _

__Tom shakes his head. He’s always believed that when it’s your call to make hard decisions and take risks that affect everyone under your command then it’s also your responsibility to bear the consequences and see things through. He’s not going to leave his team on their own to face Sarah’s loss any longer than Ruth insists on._ _

__Phil falls quiet. “We haven’t talked about how things are going to be when it’s not just you and me in a village where no one knows us and doesn’t much care what we get up to. Once we get back to our workaday lives, we’ll have the prying eyes of the police force on us. You know it as well as I do.”_ _

__“But we always have, haven’t we?”_ _

__Tom remembers Phil saying that Thugan had it in for him because he was a triple threat: pathologist, poof, pal of Tom’s. But it’s not Thugan alone who has given them odd looks over the years, sometimes hostile, other times merely curious. Phil has never hidden who he is, and Tom has never made a secret of the fact he prefers working cases with Phil to other coppers. Half the force probably thinks they’re sleeping together—if not now, then at some point in the past, as if Tom’s colleagues sensed the truth long before he himself ever wised up to it._ _

__Phil persists, “All I’m saying is, we don’t have to rush anything.”_ _

__Tom glances over at him. “We’ve known each other, what? Twenty-five years? I’d say we’ve taken it as slowly as two people can. I don’t want to keep doing that, do you?”_ _

__“No,” Phil admits._ _

__Tom smiles. “Good.”_ _

__Traffic snarls predictably the closer they get to London and stops altogether when an accident blocking the way. It begins to grow dark, and they inch along until they can finally exit the motorway for a bite to eat._ _

__When they start again, the accident has cleared, but it’s still gone ten by the time they reach Phil’s place. Tom finds a spot to park and retrieves Phil’s duffel from the boot. They stand about on the pavement, eyeing one another, not sure what comes next._ _

__“You can come up,” Phil says, “although I doubt I’ll be at my best at work tomorrow if you do.”_ _

__Tom smiles and leans in to kiss him, a giddy sense of freedom that this is something he can do now, in front of random passersby and all of Phil’s neighbors. “I should get home. But dinner at mine tomorrow?”_ _

__Phil fixes him with a look. “You sure about that? I highly doubt your father will miss the rather obvious alteration in our relationship.”_ _

__“I’m sure,” he tells Phil. “Are you?”_ _

__Phil kisses him, long and lingering. “Text me what you’re cooking. I’ll bring wine.”_ _


End file.
